‘Hunter lost the World Cup! Hunter lost the World Cup!’
And then you see Ramsey and you watch Ramsey, watch him walk away down that long, long tunnel into that long, long night and again you feel regret –
Regret. Regret. Regret –
Regret not only for the things you’ve said, the things you’ve said on television, those things you know have hurt him, but also for those things you’ve thought –
Those things you’ve thought and dreamed of, dreamed and dared to hope for –
For England to lose. For England to draw. England not to qualify –
For Alf Ramsey to lose his job as England manager –
For you to take his job as England manager.
But now, this night, you feel regret, regret and hate, hate for yourself.
You walk down from the gantry, across the pitch, that hallowed turf, down that tunnel and into the England dressing room.
‘For what it’s worth,’ you tell Alf, ‘you must be the unluckiest man in football, because you could have done that lot six or seven.’
But when Ramsey looks up at you, stares up at you from the dressing-room floor, there is no recognition in his eyes, only hurt –
Hurt and fear.
* * *
Never learn; never bloody learn. Never did and never fucking will. The piano bar of the Dragonara Hotel, two in the morning, drunk as fuck; drunk as fuck with the gentlemen of the local press; those scumbags and hacks, Harry, Ron and Mike –
Something in their eyes again …
Harry, Ron and Mike were there at training; Harry, Ron and Mike there at lunch; Harry, Ron and Mike still here with me now at two in the morning in the piano bar of the Dragonara Hotel, listening to my stories, laughing at my jokes, and pouring my drinks –
Something in their eyes.
I stand up. I sit down. I stand up again. I point my glass across the bar and shout, ‘Don’t you have a fucking home to go to?’
But Bert the Pianist just smiles and segues straight into ‘It’s a Lonesome Old Town’.
‘I never knew how much I missed you,’ I try to sing but shout –
Harry pulling me back down onto the sofa.
But I get back to my feet and point and shout, ‘Play “Hang My Tears Out to Dry”! Play “Hang My Tears Out to Dry”! Play “Hang My Tears Out to Dry” or you’re fucking sacked!’
‘Sit down,’ Ron is saying. ‘Come on, Brian lad, sit down …’
‘So make it one for my baby,’ Mike is singing. ‘And one more …’
‘Shut up!’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘That’s the wrong fucking song.’
‘Brian,’ they’re saying. ‘Brian, please —’
‘I want “I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry”,’ I tell the bar, the hotel, the whole of Leeds. ‘That’s all I want. “Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry”. Fucking wankers, the lot of you!’
But there’s no one here. No one in the piano bar –
Harry, Ron and Mike have all gone home –
Bert the Pianist has gone home too –
No one here but bloody me –
Only fucking me now –
Cloughie.
The barman takes my legs, the waiter takes my arms, but no one takes me home.
Day Thirty-two
England have drawn. England are out of the World Cup. The press and the television want Ramsey out. The press and the television want you in. But all you want this morning is company. Not to be on your Jack Jones in a posh London hotel. Not today; Thursday 18 October 1973.
You leave the capital. You drive back to Derby. There is a man on your doorstep. Man you’ve never met before. He says, ‘I want to help you get your job back, Brian.’
His name is John. John writes plays. Plays about the Yom Kippur War.
‘Come on in then,’ you tell him. ‘Have a seat and have a drink.’
You hand him a large scotch and water. The doorbell rings –
‘Brian,’ whispers your wife. ‘It’s the police, love.’
You put down your whisky with no water. You go to your front door:
‘Hello, George. Are you coming in?’ you ask Detective Inspector George Stewart.
‘Not today, Brian,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to mark your card.’
‘And why’s that then, George?’ you ask him.
George nods at the Mercedes. ‘You do know you’re not insured, don’t you?’
‘Like hell I’m not,’ you tell him. ‘I’ve just driven back from bloody London!’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Kirkland has cancelled your insurance.’
‘He’s done bloody what?’ you ask him. ‘The fucking cunt!’
‘Aye,’ says George. ‘And I wouldn’t want you to run into one of our lot who doesn’t know who you are, or who doesn’t give a shit who you are, or who just wants to make a bloody name for themselves, or just plain doesn’t like you very fucking much.’
‘Point taken, George,’ you tell him and shut the door in his face.
‘That’s bloody outrageous,’ says John. ‘Fucking diabolical.’
‘Fucking inconvenient and all,’ you tell him. ‘I’ve got to drive to Birmingham.’
‘About a job?’ asks John.
‘I bloody wish,’ you tell him. ‘I’m down to play in a charity match tonight.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ says John. ‘I’d be happy to.’
‘In that case I’ll have another drink,’ you tell John as your wife leaves the room to pick up the kids –
To make them their tea. To give them their baths. To put them to bed –
To try to lead a normal bloody life.
Later, much later that night, John is driving you back home from Birmingham, from the charity match and the nightclub: the Talk of the Midlands, where you shared a stage with Mike bloody Yarwood and appealed to the people of Derby for their support –
The people of Derby who gave you a standing fucking ovation –
John is driving you back home when he asks, ‘Are you going to the game?’
You open your eyes. You ask him, ‘Which one?’
‘The bloody Derby — Leicester one,’ he laughs. ‘On Saturday.’
You shake your head. You tell him, ‘I daren’t.’
‘You what?’ he says. ‘Cloughie scared?’
You nod your head. ‘That’s right.’
‘Listen to me,’ he tells you now. ‘If you were to walk around that running track on Saturday afternoon, you’d get an ecstatic reception. The television will be there. Be on all the news programmes. Think of the visual impact. The impact on the public.’
‘I can’t do it,’ you tell him. ‘They might throw me out.’
‘They won’t throw you out,’ he laughs. ‘You created that team. You’re a hero.’
‘Well, I’ve not got a bloody ticket either.’